


Survival of the Fittest

by TinyTiger28



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Assassin Peter Parker, Gen, More tags added as story progresses, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, reluctant alliance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-08-19 18:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20214001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyTiger28/pseuds/TinyTiger28
Summary: Peter Parker was nine years old when he was bitten by a radioactive spider and became famed Spiderboy.He was nine years old when the Institute began their hunt for the child vigilante.He was ten when they succeeded.And now, at the age of thirteen, he was finally beginning to question if it was truly survival of the fittest.Or:When Ross orders the capture of the 'Arachnid', Tony is happy to comply. Anything to get his mind off the team tearing at the seams.But he deeper he delves into the mystery of the Institution and it's famed assassin, Peter Parker, the less it makes sense.Little did he know, he started a search for the very same person four years ago.What'll he do when –if– he finds him?





	1. Where the Weak Die, the Strong Survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so not all the characters mentioned in the tags will make their way into this chapter, but they are planned. Bear with me here.
> 
> Also, just a quick warning, there is NO STARKER in this fic, so if you came looking for that, stop.

Footsteps, silent as a ghost to any other, rustled across the sparse bundles of grasses dotting the ground. He danced around the dried leaves, bloodstained feet sinking a centimeter or two into the mud with every step. His eyes darted through the trees, landing on a large pile of rocks.

The tunnel yawned open before him, beckoning.

He trudged forward, allowing the darkness to envelope him in it's shadowy arms. He continued onward, even as his surroundings turned pitch black. As the minutes passed, his eyes flickered across the emptiness. Searching.

_Ca-Clunk! _

_Rrrrrrrrrrrr..._

A sliver of light broke through the stale air, created by a rising metal door. As the crack widened, he stumbled forward, footsteps changing from quiet rustles to less-quiet squelches on the tile. 

Squinting against the blindingly bright light, instinct tugged his head downward. His eyes caught on the pristine floor, marred only by the muddy footprints he that trailed behind him.

As he stood, the world lurched to the side, forcing his hand to the wall. Bile rose in the back of his throat, but –being far too familiar with this feeling– he swallowed it down. "Headmistress," He choked out, keeping his gaze on the floor.

"Number 0628," Her voice was like a steel blade– icy cold, razor sharp, and glinting with deadly interest. "Mission status."

Two small objects tumbled out of his hand. The rolled to her feet, splattering the tile red. 

Despite the way his vision swam, he raised his head to watch the Headmistress inspect his work, desperation pricking in his stomach.

She picked up the closest finger, dipping it into the puddle of blood forming beneath it and pressing it against a clean sheet of paper. "Sabrina!" She barked, scooping up the other disembodied thumb.

A shorter woman stepped closer, chocolate brown hair tugged back into a tight ponytail. She took all three items with a simple nod, muttering "Headmistress," and disappeared off to her lab within moments.

The Headmistress turned back to him, her lips in a thin line atop her pale face. "0628," She spoke without emotion– neither enraged, nor particularly happy. No smirk of anticipation. It was a good sign, but he knew better than to get his hopes up. "Time for debriefing."

The cinderblocks lining the walls finally stilled. His nausea swirling away just as the door behind him slammed downward. 

Peter half-walked, half-staggered after her. 

As her wine red boots clicked down the halls, he glanced over her. Robotic body language, as usual. Even the way her shoulder-length hair swung seemed to be mechanical in some way, jet black strands falling to the left, then the right, then the left once again, falling into rhythm with her footfalls.

Her waistcoat –snow white, save for the cherry red floral pattern– was snug against her skeletal frame. Peter just prayed that the bloodied mud coating him didn't somehow stain her clothes. Headmistress took great pride in her appearance, and anyone that made the mistake of messing it up...

He's rather not think about it.

They passed door after door, some leading to containment cells –sometimes called dorms by those with a taste for sarcasm, others to laboratories, and still more to training rooms ('classrooms'). Though, the majority of the doors remained cloaked in mystery to all but the staff.

_Blip!_

The woman tapped the device nestled in her ear, eyes glinting with anticipation.

Sabrina's voice buzzed through the earpiece. _"Fingerprint results are a 99.9% match. Shall we carry through with genetic testing?"_

"That won't be necessary," Headmistress purred, "Thank you."

Her lips perked in a scarily satisfied smile as she finally arrived at the room. She pressed her bony hand against the scanner. Within seconds, the door slid open, revealing a nearly featureless room behind it.

It consisted of a pitch black material scored with zig-zagging lines that effectively shut out all sound from within. A single metal table sat in the middle, under the constant gaze of a blinking security camera in the corner of the room. A chair lay on the farthest side, pointing toward eachother.

His mouth went dry as he stared at the walls, and he had to consciously stop himself from hyperventilating. Peter nearly jumped when Headmistress placed her ice-cold hand on his shoulder.

He forced out a breath as she led him inside. '_Never show weakness'_, he silently reminded himself. 

Kicking the door shut behind her, she shoved him into the seat. Peter offered no resistance, even if the way she paced around him made his skin crawl.

"Now, my little Arachnid," She growled, hand snaking beneath his chin and yanking it upward. "Let's begin."

Peter gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yes Headmistress," He mumbled.

Her grin broadened, revealing a glinting tooth. "A little louder, _poppet_."

"Yes Headmistress." He said, more steady this time as his eyes glazed with fear.

As his debriefing continued, he disconnected more and more. His thoughts on the questions. Only the questions.

They came to him as simple facts. Just words. Not the recounting of an event, or the retelling of a story. Just noises that went together. Like reciting a statistic.

Very, very gruesome statistics.

* * *

"Mmhm." Tony hummed, his makeshift agreement clearly sarcastic. "And when your judgment fails, what're you gonna do?" 

Steve released a loud sigh. "I'll do what I always do. I'll take responsibility and deal with the consequences." He said matter-of-factly. Behind him, Sam nodded.

"Oh, oh really? You _always_ do it?" Stark leaned forward, hands bracing on the table. "What about the people that died in New York? What've you done for them?"

"That's not-"

"What about Sokovia?"

"I-"

"Do you know who this was?" He lifted his hand, pressing a button on a remote. A hologram appeared, depicting a tall woman with dark skin and even darker hair looped into a ponytail. Her mouth was split in a wide grin, and she was clearly having a great time when the picture was taken.

Tony didn't wait for Steve to answer. "Amanda Brun. Loving husband, two kids, and a steady job in engineering."

For once, Steve didn't protest. His mouth pressed into a thin line, but he stayed silent.

"You wanna know how she died?"

"Tony-"

"I said, do you want to know how she died!" Tony spat, helpless to the tears pricking at the edges of his eyes.

Natasha tore her gaze away from the picture, fixing it onto Stark. "How?" She asked, voice hollow.

"A building fell on her. During Sokovia. A building that _we_ knocked over."

"Tony, we can't-" Steve tried to protest.

"I don't care about what we can't do!" He roared. "This? This is what we can do. This is what a _hundred and seventeen countries_ can do."

Steve's nose flared. "If you honestly think that we can stand by and do _nothing_ just because some stupid councilman decided that we couldn't, then I don't know what to tell you, Tony, because there's clearly no helping you!"

"I'm not the one that needs help!" His voice cracked. Damn it, he was crying. "They are! And they wouldn't need help if we never fucked up in the first place."

Natasha frowned, concern glinting in her eyes. "Tony, it's not-"

"It is our fault!" He slammed his hands onto the table. "And I don't care if you're all going to be absolute fucking idiots about it!" His voice lowered into a dangerously quiet volume. "There's a meeting next week, and you're either with me," He paused to drag some desperately needed air into his lungs, "Or you're against the world."

He stood, shoving his chair backward and ignoring that it slammed into the wall, leaving a size-able dent. "See you then," He spat, yanking the door open and storming out of the meeting.

Tony rubbed his temples as he left the rest of the team behind. He was so angry he could feel a headache beating at the inside of his brain. If they would just listen for two seconds...

"Boss," Friday clipped into his earbud.

"Yeah, Fri?" He asked weakly, forcing his voice under control.

"Secretary Ross called. It appears that one of the members of tomorrow's meeting has been assassinated."

He hesitated, biting his bottom lip. "Did he want me to investigate or something?"

"He seemed convinced that it would be good press for an Avenger supporting the accords too... well, avenge someone. Especially considering the 'suspicious circumstances'."

"Is it mandatory?"

"Yes."

He sighed.

"Give me all the info you've got."

Minutes later, Tony stood, staring at an admittedly grotesque scene.

Part of the camera's view was obscured by scarlet red dripping down it's lens, but that still left plenty to be seen.

A large man lay sprawled on the floor, blood splattering almost every pixel of the screen. He was pale, paler than any body that had only been there for a few hours should be. His veins bulged, visible even through his ratty blonde hair. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, sticking awkwardly out of his bloated face.

Both of his hands were soaked in red, camouflaging them against the stained carpet. If you didn't look closely, you could almost miss the fact that he was missing his thumbs.

Tony didn't usually play detective, but he would make an exception this time. If not for the concern that someone broke into a high security facility just to kill the ruler of a small country, then for the distraction.

"And what did you say was the cause of death?"

"Venom." Friday answered.

"You're sure it's venom? Not regular poison?"

"The solution was found to be much like a Brazilian Wandering spider's neurotoxin. Although, it also bears similarities to Brown Recluse and Black Widow venom, and contained trace amounts of human DNA."

"Human DNA?" Tony mumbled, "Are you sure it's not from the victim?"

"It did not resemble the victim's DNA."

Tony thought this over for a few moments. "What about someone else's?"

"Running search now..." Friday considered millions (actually, it was probably more around the billions) of DNA profiles, but –bless Tony's genius coding– she was done in seconds. "The human DNA is 97% match with Peter Parker."

"Bring up his file."

The picture of a small child blinked into existence, accompanied by a long list words, all glowing silvery white on the blue background.

Curly brown hair, soft cheeks, and absolutely humongous brown eyes. His cheeks poofed slightly with baby fat, and his mouth fell into a gap-toothed smile. A tiny cartoonish Ironman band-aid crossed the side of his arm.

He'd probably think the kid was cute if he wasn't suspect in a murder.

"Why's the pic so outdated?" Tony questioned, glancing over to the kid's birthday.

"He went missing four years ago, the same night his Aunt and Uncle were killed."

"Aunt and Uncle? What about his parents?"

"Died in a plane crash five years prior."

Tony sucked a hissing breath through his teeth. "So... what? He just went off the grid?"

"He was assumed dead a few months after he went missing."

He hummed thoughtfully, foot tapping against the floor. "Any other murders done like this?"

"Multiple murders have been committed in the same manner, although, most with less well-known targets. There have also been a number of non-venom related ones with the victim's thumbs both missing."

"Is the thumb thing a message of some sort?" Tony mused. "Fri, check the-"

"No need."

Tony raised a skeptic eyebrow, shooting the redhead in his doorway a glance. "Look, if you're here chew me out about the accords, I'm busy." He swiped a hand across one of the holograms as if to prove his point.

Nat quirked an eyebrow of her own. She smirked, crossing her arms across her chest, "And if I'm not?"

"If you're not, then you're stuck helping me."

"Good," She sauntered up to the holograms, searching the screens for only a few seconds before gesturing to the victim's hands. "That," She pointed to where his thumbs should be, "Is proof."

"Mm," Tony nodded, pursing his lips slightly in annoyance. "Care to elaborate?"

"A while back I came across an organization called the Institute."

"Ooh, sounds scary." Tony snickered. 

"It is," Natasha fixed him with a look, squinting her eyes and saying 'grow up you numbskull' without speaking a word. "They weaponize enhanced individuals. Kind of like Hydra, but instead of working to rule the world, they just want cash."

"So they're selling people?"

"Depends on the client." She shrugged, waving a hand in a small circle as she leaned against the counter beside her. "Some get sold. Some get rented. Sometimes they'll just pay for someone to die."

Tony puased, tapping his finger against the table. "And the thumbs are proof because...?"

"The Institute makes their 'students' prove they did the job by cutting off the victim's thumbs."

He snorted. "What, do they fingerprint them or something?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if they did, but it's also a signature."

"Like a 'hey, don't fuck with us cause this is the kind of stuff we can pull' kind of thing?" He asked, subconsciously tapping a finger against the counter.

Nat nodded, "Exactly."

Tony stared down at the white-grey-flecked countertop, eyebrows furrowing as the pieces fell together. "And what about the venom?"

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek for a long moment. Eventually, she piped up again. "You said it was spider venom, right?"

"Either that or something really close to it."

Natasha shrugged, "Last time, I heard about a... work in progress project of theirs. They called it 'The Arachnid.'"

He suppressed a laugh. "They're not too big on subtlety."

"Neither is Ross." Nat pointed out. "He wants this done in time for the accords meeting."

Tony blew out a long sigh, hand finding his way onto his forehead. "Yeah, okay." He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Taking down some secret organization and capturing one of their assassins." He hummed, nodding slightly, as if this confirmed something. "I can do that in a week."

* * *

"That will be all, 0628. Thank you for your cooperation." She turned, dagger-gaze finally leaving the boy as she took slow steps toward the door.

Peter couldn't help the sigh of relief that burst from his mouth. "Th-Thank you, Headmistress." He said quickly, bowing his head.

As she planted her hand on the scanner, she turned back to him. "Oh, actually, one more thing."

His stomach sank.

"How long were you given to complete your mission?" She raised an eyebrow, eyes widening in a strange form of faked innocence. 

"Six days."

The corners of her lips flickered upward in a terrifyingly gleeful grin. "And how many days did it take for you to come back?"

He paused, mouth hovering open for a moment before he finally conceded to his fate. "Eight."

As soon as the words left his mouth, she swung the door open, teeth flashing with cruel anticipation. "You know what that means, my little Arachnid."

And with a cheerful wave, she was gone.

Tears pricked at the edges of his eyes, but he willed them away. _Never show weakness._

It began quiet, nearly impossible to hear unless he paid it too much attention. A faint ring emanating around the room. _Don't let them see the cracks in your armour._

It had no clear source. Simply reverberating off the walls, growing ever louder as it pounded through the air. _Don't let there be cracks in your armour in the first place._

Digging into his head with a splitting whine. He fell to the floor, hands pressed firmly against his ears. _Only the weak fail._

Ripping at the inside of his skull, still amplifying. _And where the weak die, the strong survive._

He tried to hold back the bubble in his throat. The one that expanded larger and larger. Pressure building as it squeezed against the sides of his neck.

He wasn't strong enough.

It burst, and the screams escaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the scenes about the accords weren't perfect. Sue me (don't actually, you won't get enough money for it to be worth it). Honestly, I've forgotten a lot of Civil war, so I'm trying not to focus on those scenes too much. This is non-canon compliant and everyone's read about it a million times anyway (unless you haven't, in which case, sorry about that).
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed, comment and kudo if you want, don't if you don't, and have a nice day!


	2. Strength in Numbers

Morning arrived with a tense still to the air. The kind where you lay awake, but keep your eyes closed, wondering how long you could stay in your half-awake state so you disn't have to think. Grasping at some strange hope that maybe everything was a dream.

Of course, she knew it wasn't.

She also knew that she couldn't stay in the faux emptiness for very long. Natasha had things to do and people to hunt down.

But maybe just a little longer...

_CRASH!_

Her nose wrinkled, scrunching up the rest of her face along with it.

That sounded marginally urgent.

With a groan into her pillow, she dragged herself upward. Her feet lazily kicked at the floor until they found purchase. As she allowed herself a moment to appreciate the soft, fuzzy feeling between her toes, Nat sat up, hand drifting toward her face to rub the sleep out of her eyes.

She threw open the dresser, rummaging through it with the beauty and grace of a hungry badger. Her mind wandered as she dug a pair of slippers out of the mess of clothes.

Maybe this wouldn't be absolutely catastrophic. Between constantly saving the world and dealing with the boys' eternal pissing contest, the team had been through their fair share of arguments. They'd also been through too many legal troubles to count, but Tony's army of lawyers always managed to drag them out of whatever pit they'd dug themselves.

But this time they didn't have an legal army behind them. Tony had just... rolled over and taken it.

Shaking her head, Nat dragged herself out of her thoughts. She was presentable enough to go investigate (although, her hair could probably do with more brushing), so she might as well get going.

Stretching, she stalked toward the kitchen, where she was certain she heard the awkward rustles and bumps of an attempted clean-up.

As Natasha rounded the corner, she paused, taking in the scene before her.

A small device lay on the counter, shooting out a number of holograms in a large circle. They were scattered loosely, displaying an assortment of news articles and mugshots. A large three-dimensional face hovered just inside the wall of light.

The head, shining a gentle blue, seemed almost familiar. Clearly young, maybe somewhere between twelve and fourteen. Small curls piled into a mop of hair. Smooth features. Expression nonexistent.

"Who's the kid?"

Tony shot up from where he was kneeled on the floor in front of a mess of ceramic shards, dustpan in hand. "Hm?" He hummed hoarsely.

"I said," Natasha huffed, taking a few strides toward him. "Who's the kid?" She gestured to the holograph as she leaned above the broken coffee mug, snatching the dustpan away from Tony. 

"Oh," Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, "Yeah, yeah. That's Peter." He mumbled.

"The kid from yesterday? How'd you get a picture?"

"Predictive aging software. It's not foolproof, but it's as close as we're gonna get to the real thing."

"Mm," Nat nodded, sweeping up the coffee-soaked shards and chucking them in the trash. "And how long have you been up?" She ripped a few paper towels off a nearby roll.

"Not tha-" He gave a long yawn, "Not tha' long."

"So all night then?" Natasha chucked the coffee-stained towels toward the trashcan, shooting him a knowing look.

Tony scowled, scooping up another mug and sticking it under the coffee machine's spout. "Maybe."

"So the case is just that interesting, huh?" She grabbed the cup before he had the chance to, taking a long sip as she glanced over the seemingly endless blocks of text.

"Y'now, that _was_ mine." Tony grumbled, reaching towards the cupboards.

"Nu-uh," Nat slapped him away. "You've been cut off."

He huffed, driving his groggy attention back to the holograms. "Well, the case is interestig. Thanks for asking," He snarked, "But, thanks to a _certain_ amazing genius billionaire, we might've gotten a lead or two."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"I found some guys online talking about a potential deal. Mentioned one of their 'campuses' or something like that. Long story short," He clicked a button, which sent a set of coordinates blinking into the air. "We have a location."

Natasha hummed, reading it over. "Y'now, we can't go on a raid with you half asleep." She set her empty mug down on the counter. 

"I'll be fine, Nat." Tony groaned, a whine sneaking it's way into his voice.

"Just go get some rest." She sighed, shoving him off toward the couch. "I'll talk to Ross."

He opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by a yawn. His shoulders slumped, seemingly giving in. "You sure you got this?" 

She smirked, "I always am."

* * *

Silence.

Complete and utter silence.

He should be used to it by now, considering it was one of their favorite punishments.

You'd think one would be enough, but it seemed that they liked to keep things even. Two days stolen from his training? Two days of punishment.

At least, that's what he thought it was. With his irregular sleep schedule, his internal clock had been all but destroyed at this point. All he knew was that when he finally woke up on the ice cold floor, everything had gone silent.

He would've appreciated it a lot more if he hadn't known what came after.

As if on cue, a low ringing sound thrummed through the room.

His hands tightened on his legs, which were tugged up close to his chest. His eyes snapped shut.

He bit back a scream.

Panting and wheezing, he listened, expecting pain and instead finding blissful quirt.

He didn't allow himself to relax, knowing that these brief respites could sometimes last mere seconds.

Minutes passed.

Silence.

Silence.

For a single second, he thought he heard something. A creaky metallic rattle.

Moments passed.

Silence.

Silence.

rSilen-

_CLUNK!_

He flinched.

Peter glued his eyes to the floor, not daring to raise his gaze. He bit his lip, silently awaiting whatever beating he was about to take.

"Peter." 

Headmistress has banned all actual names in 'staff and student' interactions. Only one person was to stubborn to do it anyway.

His head shot upwards, and wide brown eyes were met with a pale, stubbly, be-freckled face.

"Luc- I mean, sir!" As much trouble as Luca was probably already in for calling him by name, Peter had no intention to add onto it –or to get in more trouble himself.

"No time for this," Luca said quickly, his frizzy ginger hair flopping to the side as he waved his hand in a shushing motion. "We're evacuating."

"Wha-"

"C'mon," He grabbed Peter's shoulder, meeting no resistance as he lifted him to his feet.

"Where are we going?" He rasped, throat still raw from screaming.

Luca shrugged, eyes wandering downwards resentfully. "Can't tell you." He murmured, knowing Pete's senses were usually on overdrive after these episodes.

"Do you know?"

He bit the inside of his cheek, "No." 

Pete hummed, glancing downwards and stumbling down the hallway alongside him. 

Luca grabbed his arm, chucking it over his neck to support him. He moved to tear his arm away, but Luca just held it tighter. Peter didn't have the energy to fight it.

Thumps and muffled curses sounded down the hallway. Pete opened his mouth to warn Luca, but it appears that –even without super senses– he heard it too.

He stiffened, "Sorry kid, this is gonna hurt."

Peter gulped. He gave a dry chuckle, trying to diffuse the terrified electricity burning through his veins. "That's nothing new."

Luca's arm found itself behind his knees. He scooped him into the air effortlessly –after all, Peter barely weighed seventy pounds. His ankle stung. In fact, his entire body stung, but he'd live.

With that, Luca began sprinting, no longer slowed by Pete's limping gait.

He strained his ears, hearing gunshots behind them.

Worry sparked in his chest.

He could survive a bullet or two (and if he didn't, he wouldn't really mind anyway), but Luca? 

Luca might have been the only adult he actually cared about there, but he still couldn't fight for shit. And if he got injured, Headmistress wouldn't lift a finger to help.

They crashed through a set of doors, Luca thrusting Peter forward and into the waiting hands of other Institute.

He glanced across the line of vans, where personal in black and red uniforms loaded supplies and other prisoners. A few were already taking of and speeding off down the road.

Luca moved to enter the van, hands outstretched to close the doors behind him. His mouth opened, about to form a sentence-

_BANG!_

A second passed where Peter didn't know what happened. Then liquid sprayed onto his face.

Blood.

Luca's blood.

"L-Lu-" He stammered, eyes wide. "Luca-"

Faceless hands were tugging him backward.

"Luca!"

He wrested himself forward, hands gripping the van doors and crumping the metal at his fingertips.

"We have to get him, we-"

Gunshots rang through the air.

"We have to-"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a labcoat clad arm reach forward, syringe in hand.

"No! I have to help him!" He flailed, trying to claw the syringe out of his fingers. "I-"

A prick in his neck from behind.

"No! Please, I have to-" His limbs were already growing heavy. "I-"

Somebody tugged his weak form to the back of the van, finally managing to get the doors shut.

"Please, we- we have to save him." He whispered, head falling limply into the corner.

"Step on it!" Someone barked. A screeching sound cut through the air.

He tried to grasp the meaning of the words, but they trickled out of his grasp like sand between his fingers.

His eyelids tugged downward.

No- He...

He...

He fell into the darkness.

Well, actually, he fell out of darkness, eyes shooting open to a familiar clunk.

He scooted to the wall, trying to distract himself from thoughts of Luca. Focusing on remembering when exactly he passed out.

Must've been during the last round of agony.

Now, at least, it was almost silent, save for the aforementioned clunk of the door opening.

Booted feet stamped into the room, their owners hidden behind darkly tinted plastic sheets over their faces.

"Time to go."

Peter didn't bother asking where.

He fell in step behind them, not daring to lift his eyes.

Thumps and muffled curses sounded from behind. 

He walked faster.

They broke into a run.

He followed. 

A guard grabbed his arm to ensure he stayed with them. If not for the situation, he would've laughed.

He could've broken the guard's grip in the blink of an eye, but he planned on sticking with them anyway. It wasn't as if there was any alternative.

Numbly, he saw a syringe out of the corner of his eye, held firmly in a guard's gloved hand. He was almost surprised that they would feel the need to use it anymore.

Nonetheless, as they shoved their way through the doors and the all too familiar vans came into view, he found himself wrinkling his nose at a prick in his neck.

'It's probably for the best,' He thought to himself as his legs turned to jelly.

This way he didn't have to dwell on memories.

This way he could finally rest.

* * *

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

Tony sighed, barely noticing his foot bouncing away as he just _sat_ there doing absolutely _nothing_.

He hated waiting.

Why was he even this worried about it? He dealt with things like this every day.

Well, not things _exactly_ like this. 

'He's only thirteen...'

But that didn't matter.

He was still dangerous and controlled by an equally dangerous organization.

But he was so _young_. Missing at nine, murdering at eleven (at least, that's how the timeline seemed to end up. For all Tony knew, the kid could've been killing people the moment the Institute got him).

He couldn't take it. Just _waiting_. 

Running a hand through his hair, he stood and started walking. Not with any particular destination in mind, just walking. One foot after another. Turning. Turning again. Turning again... He circled the couch like a vulture.

Nat raised an eyebrow. "Tony, it'll be fine."

"But what if Ross messes up? What if some of the kids get hurt?! What if-"

"We can burn that bridge when we come to it." Natasha sighed, flipping a page in the magazine that sat perched on her knees.

Tony's forehead wrinkled, his eyebrows furrowing. "That's... that's not how it goes."

"Usually it isn't. Right now, though?" She finally raised her gaze from the magazine. "If Ross hurts the kids, bridges are getting burnt." The icy twinkle in her eye proved that she wasn't joking.

Tony waved a hand, the movement a bit frantic. "_Please_ don't say that here."

"And where else would I say it?" She pricked an eyebrow.

"Somewhere where there _isn't_ a high chance of Ross calling in at any moment." 

Her nails tapped against the arm of the couch for a moment, calculating. "Point taken," She agreed reluctantly.

Another silence passed.

Tony glanced at his watch. The raid started an hour ago. He went back to pacing, then he glanced at his watch again. Thirty seconds had passed.

Pace. Watch. A minute.

Pace. Watch. Two minutes.

Pace. Watch. Three

Pace. Watch. Five.

Pace-

"Secretary Ross is on the line, Boss."

"Patch him through," Tony said instantly, his tone snappish.

"Will do, Boss."

He didn't wait for Ross to say a word before he spoke. "How'd it go?"

"Well, you were right." Ross admitted, albeit with a hint of reluctance in his voice. "Broke in, found the bastards, but at least half of em' escaped."

"Which ones?" He demanded.

"Don't know. What we do know, however, is that we caught quite a few of their... weapons." His voice was grim, edged in a crisp business-like tone.

Tony drummed his fingers on his leg, having nothing else to channel his nervous energy into. Anyone talking about people like _that_... It never meant anything good.

"And?"

"And they're getting shipped off to the Raft."

"Without a trial?" Tony asked incredulously.

Ross scoffed, "Of course they're getting a God damned trial. And it'll end with a life sentence, if I've got any say in it."

"Ross, they're just _children_."

"Enhanced children that've been raised to kill."

"Ross-"

"Mr. Stark, need I remind you and you're suit are responsible for millions in property damages? Those _kids_ have at least ten times that ability. Imagine that kind of power in a mentally unstable child. The kind of power that can't be taken away with the confiscation of a suit." Ross snarled, his voice growing ever harsher.

Natasha scowled, finally deciding to break in. "Surely you can find some way to monitor them aside from a maximum security prison."

"Would you prefer a regular prison?" He sniffed, disdain evident. "On the Raft, they'll be kept safe and well fed. I imagine that's _plenty_ to keep them happy."

"So you're just gonna take away any chance for them to live a normal life!?" Tony barked.

"If trading their freedom ensures others' safety, then _yes_." He spat the last word, almost as if he was proud of it. "Besides, there isn't a chance they could live normal lives anyway. They're mutated freaks."

Thank god this was an audio only conversation. Just by the heat rising in his cheeks, he could guess that his face was glowing beet red. 

He opened his mouth to sputter out an enraged curse, but swallowed it down.

Stark took a breath. Screeching at the Secretary of State wouldn't do him any good. Not if he was going to get any information from him, at least.

He worked his jaw, contemplating. Eventually, he spoke hoarsely, like the energy had drained out of him. "Did you get the Arachnid kid?" 

Ross blew out a withering sigh, answering it the question he even said a word. "Doesn't seem like it."

An all too uncomfortable silence fell over the room, one which Tony took advantage of to shoot Natasha a look.

If her deathly calm stare was anything to go by, she was as furious as himself.

He shrugged, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I'm assuming you want us to keep looking for him?"

"If you please," Ross grumbled.

"...Alright."

"Good. I expect this madness to be done with by the meeting."

With that, the secretary blipped off the line, leaving the two to drown in their silence.

A few seconds passed before she spoke. "Tony, you can't just-"

"Nat."

She silenced, rage and pain swirling through her eyes.

"I-" He paused, "_We_ have a job to do."

"Tony-"

"Nat, _please_." 

Defeat rang in his voice louder than any of the words he spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the whole dream thing was annoying to decipher. I kinda just wanted a bit of a "wait..." moment. I tried to hint at the fact that the Luca bit wasn't in the present with the whole 'Peter is seventy pounds' and the fact that his ankle hurt even thought I never mentioned it in the chapter before this.
> 
> So yeah. Do you think the dream bit was badly written? Or was it good? Comment if you wanna help out with that, don't if you don't. And, as always, have a nice day!


	3. Face to Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY THINGS ARE GONNA PICK UP!
> 
> WOOT WOOT! Let's GO peeps!

_Click- rrrrrrrrr!_

The coffee machine gave a cheerful chirp as the last of it's liquid heaven streamed into the cup.

He took a sip from the steaming mug, scarcely noticing the fact that it was completely absent of milk. Or sugar. Or cream.

Okay, so maybe he did notice it, but he wasn't really awake enough to care. 

Tony gave a breathy sigh.

The coffee clunked against the dresser as he set it down, heedless to any rings that it would leave (coasters were for control freaks, anyway).

He threw open the closet before him, mind wandering as he rummaged through it.

_Peter Parker. Enrolled in the gifted program in kindergarten. Skipped first grade. Competed in a Stark Industries Science Fair at nine years old with a work in progress synthetic spidersilk that could hold two hundred pounds with one strand._

Tony shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts swirling through his mind. A moment's hesitation passed before he dragged out a warm grey three piece suit. Well... two parts of a three piece suit.

He sighed, digging deeper into the maze of clothes.

_The Arachnid. Responsible for at least thirty seven murders. Suspect in twenty four more. A legend among mercenaries. The mythical posterboy of the Institute with a perfect success rate_. 

It was hard to believe they were the same person.

Tony bit his lip, deep in thought even as he scavenged the last of his outfit out of the closet.

He chucked it on unceremoniously.

As he tugged the end of his tie –making it just a hair tighter– his eyes wandered to the top of his dresser, where a silver watch lay.

They weren't supposed to bring any weapons inside. It was a peaceful meeting, after all. Well, as peaceful as anything political could be. And it wouldn't exactly be great for publicity if he got caught with it.

Then again, Nat was practically a walking arsenal, and he wouldn't be surprised if Rhodey took his own version of the gauntlet watch (gifted to him by a certain _genius billionaire_). Who would even suspect a watch for being a weapon?

...

He slipped it on, shoving it a little ways under the cuff if his sleeve.

What Ross didn't know couldn't hurt him.

In fact, it almost helped him.

Almost.

As Tony sat, consciously trying not to twiddle his thumbs and listening for the announcement that they could finally sit down, he was oblivious to the security on the first floor being breached.

Everyone was.

King T'Chaka began his speech. Tony tried to pay attention, he really did, but no matter how hard he tried to keep it on track, his train of thought always wiggled out of his grasp.

Once to his tie, which he couldn't straighten without seeming rude. The second time to brush his fingers against his watch, fearing for a second that he was defenseless. The third to a dog –a german shepherd by the sound of it– barking outside.

The final distraction was almost due to his cooling coffee. He had half the thought in his mind before a roaring boom burst through the building. 

Glass shattered, though, Tony couldn't hear it through the ringing in his ears. The shards lay scattered around him, a couple embedding themself in his hands as he scrambled to his feet.

The gauntlet was out in seconds, aimed outward as he turned, surveying the scene.

His eyes caught on the king.

The pedestal which he was speaking behind mere moments ago was obliterated, leaving the man laying a few feet away. Another man –his son, Tony assumed– had his body draped over the corpse, sobbing like the world had stopped turning.

He lowered his gauntlet, taking a step toward him to offer condolences of some sort, when a flash of silver caught his eye.

In an instant, his hand was splayed forward, palm pointing at the figure sprinting toward the broken windows.

Tony darted after him, but was a second too late.

The only thing he saw before the man jumped was a metal arm.

He leaned dangerously close to the edge, gauntlet aimed toward the shadow rapidly disappearing along the street, but the gathering crowd made it impossible to get in a clean hit.

Tony was frozen for a time, arm extended toward the ground. He only realized he'd been staring at the spot where the man disappeared when a hand landed on his shoulder, tugging him back from the ledge.

"No one should of survived that fall." He muttered.

"Well, whoever it is, they did." Rhodey sighed a gusty breath, "And they hit the ground running."

"Do you think they're-"

"Enhanced." Rhodey broke in before he had the chance to finish. He nodded slowly, "Definitely."

His friend allowed him a few more moments of silence, giving him time for his brain to swirl with shock, confusion, and whatever other tidal waves of emotion washed over him.

A light grip on his arm drew him from his thoughts.

"C'mon, you should get that checked." Rhodey's voice was soft.

"Wh-" His brows furrowed, sending a stinging pain through his forehead. His hand floated to the spot, and came back coated in red. "Oh..."

Rhodes gave a gentle tug on his elbow, goading him to the doorway.

He followed.

* * *

The room stank of vomit, burning the insides of his nostrils. He could taste it on the very tip on his tongue, making him want to add to the mysterious stains dotting the floor.

But he swallowed it down.

Peter shoved his hands to his ears, desperately trying to tune out the screams sounding down the halls. He refused to allow his face to betray his pain. Pain was for the weak, after all.

Luca always frowned whenever he recited one of the Institute's many sayings, casting him a worried look. He would open his mouth, on the verge of protesting, then shut it as he shot a look at the closest camera from the corner of his eye. All he could do was give a tiny, morose shake of his head.

He missed working in the lab with Luca. Headmistress had allowed it only because he sometimes was smart enough to advance whatever project he helped with, but even then only trusted him enough with a guard there.

Still, it was relaxing, in a strange way. To have his hands moving, to banter with Luca. Occasionally, they'd get a nicer guard that joined in on the conversation. 

He couldn't bear to so much as look at a lab for a while after...

A rattling creak drew his attention back to the present. 

_Thunk!_

Juice splattered across his cheek. He rubbed it off with his sleeve, wrinkling his nose at the out-of-date baked beans. Peter leaned closer, giving it a sniff. No sedatives. Or poison. Cold, but there wasn't much else he could've expected. He did see some sort of powder sprinkled over the surface, slowly turning brown in the runny slime. Vitamins, most likely. Or whatever new experiment they were looking to try.

Casting a wary glance toward the flap in the door, he reached a tentative toward the tray. Didn't seem like anything else was coming through soon.

Deeming the food safe, he scooped up the plastic fork –which had been dulled for safety's sake– and dug in.

He was still ravenous by the time every last morsel had been scraped from the tray. 

As if to prove this point, his stomach growled, the sound echoing through the room like a record on repeat. 

Peter turned, shooting his empty gaze to the camera blinking away in the corner. Maybe they'd get the message.

Unfortunately, they didn't. In fact, they were marginally annoyed by it.

"_This_," The man gestured to the screen, displaying the view of a broken looking boy, "Is your secret weapon?"

"Our students are more than meets the eye." Headmistress's teeth flashed against the stark white lighting. "_Especially_ the Arachnid."

"So you keep saying," He hummed.

They lapsed into a silence, Headmistress narrowing her eyes at the _idiot_ who stood before her.

Her hand tapped on the table, finger after finger falling in a waterfall-like motion making a strange sort of rhythm.

_Ta-ta-ta-tap._

"Perhaps a demonstration is in order?"

_Ta-ta-ta-tap._

The corners of his eyes wrinkled, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face.

_Ta-ta-ta-tap._

"That would do nicely."

_Ca-clunk!_

He was already standing at rapt attention, being able to hear the approaching footsteps outside the cell door.

Two guards stepped in, guns at the ready.

The first aimed his rifle directly at Peter's heart as the second clamped a gloved hand onto his arm. 

They none-to-gently dragged him down the hall, the muzzle of a gun aimed at him at all times.

He was tempted to quip about the rough handling, but that would just earn him a fist to the face, so he remained silent.

Instead, he distracted himself with glancing across the hall. The facility was far different than his last one. Cracks scattered across the walls. Bugs skittering along the floor. This must've been one of the secondary facilities. Headmistress didn't suffer her main quarters to be dirty.

Even as they walked, the scent of a cleaner of some sort wafted through the air. He repressed a gag at the smell, which was even stronger than the vomit-stained cell he came from.

Eventually he found himself in front of a thankfully less pungent room.

The door stood open, revealing a large, square space. The entire area was coated in a familiar metal –vibranium, if Peter remembered correctly–, including the other side of the door. A single window rested on the far wall, tinted so darkly that he could only make out a few dark figures through it, meaning it would be completely blank to the unenhanced. 

Peter was, of course, familiar with this set up.

It was a training room. Designed for sparring, experiments, or whatever else Headmistress deemed necessary. 

It could hold up to any attack thrown at it. The window was reinforced, the walls undentable, the door impossible to break through.

The only way to escape? Do what you were told.

"Objective?" He glanced to the first guard, half expecting him not to answer.

"Win." The gruff voice cut through his mask.

He hummed. A fight it was then. "Is the target disposable?"

The second guard gave a half-huff, half-barking laugh. "Eager today, aren't cha?" He shoved Peter inside. "Standard match rules, keep this one alive."

He didn't startle as he stumbled inside, only managing to give a curt nod before the door slid closed.

Caramel brown eyes darted around the room. Empty.

A few seconds passed before that abruptly changed.

A familiar prickle went up his spine, and he whirled around to face his opponent.

She stood a few feet in front of him, just out of punching range. Tall. Agile. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Freckles. Wearing a black jumpsuit emblazoned with the Institute's logo, a blood red cherry blossom.

Then she disappeared.

A blow to the back of his knees sent him sprawling forward, but he corrected himself at the last minute, spinning around as he flattened himself to the floor. 

Teleporter?

Her next kick flew through the empty air where his head was moments ago. She stumbled, and he took the opportunity to grab her by the leg and slam her sideways into the ground.

Suddenly, he was in the air, falling with his hand still clamped around her ankle.

Definitely a teleporter.

The startle was just enough of a distraction for her to kick him off. 

He hit the ground running, sprinting to the wall and switching from horizontal to vertical with liquid ease.

A tingle on his neck gave him just enough time to brace himself as the girl popped into existence, hands gripping his shoulders. He slapped his hands over hers, holding her to his back as he flipped over, crushing the girl into the wall.

Once again, he found himself falling through the air.

He awkwardly maneuvered himself so that the girl would hit the ground first, still clamping his hands onto her wrists.

Sure enough, she didn't let herself hit, instead teleporting to the ceiling once again –dragging Peter along with her.

And then she did it again.

And again.

And again.

It was clearly taking a toll on her. Her struggles grew weaker and weaker by the second, every warp sending them closer and closer to the ground. She panted for breath, and he could smell the sweat building on her forehead.

On one fall, her breathing calmed, signaling that she had passed out.

He twisted, landing on his feet. Delicately, Peter lowered her to the floor, before fixing the figures behind the window with a hard stare.

The match had lasted only about a minute or two. He was the victor.

It was a bittersweet feeling. 

It was likely he wouldn't get punished, having finished his objective and followed all the regular restrictions. The girl, however, was going to be in for a lot of pain later.

He squinted, wondering which torture they used for her.

Her uniform gave no answers, being identical to his own. Though, a metallic glint peeked out from beneath the golden strands of hair falling over her shoulders.

Shock collar, he guessed. Quite commonly used by the Headmistress.

He waited patiently, silently questioning how she had gotten her powers. Perhaps from the Institute themselves? Unlikely. Teleportation was very useful. If they knew how to do it, then they'd have far more 'students' with it. Than again, it could've been a mistake on their part. Perhaps-

_Ca-clunk! _

He didn't move until a hand landed on his arm.

He made no protest as they made their way down the halls, ignoring the pain shooting through his legs with every step. 

They tossed him in the cell, shoving a crumpled piece of paper into his hands and slamming the door shut.

After pausing a few seconds to make sure that they really were gone, he brought his attention to the paper.

The first line was emboldened, consisting of two words.

**Objective: Capture**

Well, that was new.

* * *

Merely a day after the Vienna bombing, they had caught their main suspect.

The winter soldier.

Ross, for some ungodly reason, insisted that Tony and Natasha should come to the holding facility –the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre– at six o' clock sharp to help with the interrogation. 

So, at five a.m., Tony woke up and started his day.

Suit? Check. Glasses? Check. Phone? Check. 

Watch?

He glanced toward the dresser, his watch sitting atop it after being haphazardly tossed off yesterday evening.

This time, he didn't hesitate to clasp it around his wrist.

He was at the centre two minutes early, chock full of caffeine and sleep deprivation. 

It was gonna be one of those days.

He strode in, Natasha –however reluctantly– at his side. 

"Look, I'm not saying I want the kid to be in jail for his entire life, he just needs to be taken off the streets, and this is the only way to do it."

Nat simply hummed in response, scowl evident.

"And that's assuming I can even _find_ him." He pointed out as they entered the elevator, letting resting his hand against the scanner absentmindedly. It blipped and they began to rise.

"He's an expert assassin whose movements are controlled by an organization that's constantly hiding in the shadows," She rolled her eyes, "It's not like it should be easy."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony half-grumbled, half-sighed as they entered the fifteenth floor. "But-"

An alarm blared through the air.

"That doesn't sound good..."

A few feet off, Ross was screeching into his com about evacuating or something like that. Guards rushed toward an open hallway, where the sounds of a struggle echoed through the air.

Nat jog-walked forward. "Please tell me you brought a suit."

"Sure did, it's a lovely Tom Ford, three piece, two button. I'm an active duty non-combatant." Tony snapped, speed-walking after her.

Sharon sprinted past them, breathing out a quick, "Follow me." before disappearing into the stairwell.

They did as they were told, thundering up the stairs two at a time.

Tony tugged the edge of his watch over his hand, forming the gauntlet around his palm as he rounded the corner.

His gaze was met by a plaza of sorts. Tables and chairs dotted the edges of the room. The only lighting came through the glass roof. 

The winter soldier stood in the middle, surrounded by limp bodies. Beside him, another figure –clad in a dark blue hoodie– was knocking out the last of the guards. 

Tony raised his hand, sending a booming shockwave through the air.

It seemed to simply startle the winter soldier, but the smaller figure yelped in pain, dropping the guard he'd been holding in the air by his collar.

His voice was high pitched, clearly young. His flinch sent the hood off his head, revealing an inky black mask with a web-like pattern. The bottom of his face was the only thing left exposed.

He grit his teeth, his two elongated canines flashing in the sunlight.

The Arachnid had made an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry.
> 
> I have nothing against people who use coasters.
> 
> P.S. Sorry for the kinda crappy quality. I'm tired and this is a fanfic, so yeah.
> 
> P.P.S. Next chapter is gonna be so fun. I've been looking forward to writing it since I started this.


	4. Just Another Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out! Peter centric chapter ahead!

Headmistress had many different voices.

There was the punishment voice. Filled with icy happiness that made your blood run cold just before it stabbed into you like the pointy end of an icicle.

The training voice. Quick, sharp, and leaving no room for argument. Simply commands. Nothing more, nothing less.

The victory voice. Sing-song and purring, like a cat that learned to whistle and had just lured a dimwitted sparrow right into it's claws. She only used it when she'd finally closed a deal with some person or another.

Today, she was using her mission voice. Much like the training one, but with a slight air of excitement buzzing through it. 

"Objective?"

"Capture."

Mission prep. Certainly nothing new. Usually, they gave him the statement. It contained whatever information he needed to complete the job, so he'd memorize it. Then they'd quizzed him just before the set him loose on his next unsuspecting victim, ensuring the highest possible chance that he'd complete his mission.

"Location?"

"Joint Counter Terrorist Centre."

This was all perfectly normal and routine. So why was he nervous? 

"Target?"

"The Winter Soldier."

There it was. He had to subdue one of the most famed assassins on the Earth, he had to drag him back hundreds of miles to the base while being at the top pretty much the entire globe's most wanted list.

"Time frame?"

"One week maximum. Three day optimal."

He could do that in a week.

"And if you fail?"

"I'll be punished. However you see fit."

After all, it was just another mission.

She grinned. He could hear the way her heartbeat quickened. Excitement.

"Exactly."

A clicked a remote at her side, and the door behind him cracked open, releasing a wisping breath of pine-scented air.

"Remember, failing is for the weak." Her nails, sharp as a cat's and coated in a bright cherry nail polish, poked ever so slightly into his shoulder. "Catch him for us, _poppet_."

_'Just another mission.'_

He gulped, nodding wildly.

And, without another word, he stalked off into the snow.

The trip through the forest was quick. He switched to swinging seconds after leaving the facility. The pine branches were a bit springy, but better it was still better than running the whole way.

As he approached the first sign of civilization along his route –a small wooden cabin that had a bit of a 'middle-of-nowhere aura about it– he dropped to the ground. Every step sent a shiver up his spine, his bare feet sinking an inch or so into the snow.

No smoke rose from the chimney, and the house's innards appeared to be completely absent of light. It was –temporarily– unoccupied. 

He worked quickly, snatching a winter coat off the laundry line. It would reduce mobility, but that was a risk he'd have to take. The Institute's uniform was about at thin as a tissue, and he wasn't exactly keen on testing his abilities in thermoregulation.

Armed with some off-white snow gear (he always felt more comfortable when he was at least slightly camouflaged), he set off once again. 

The sun sunk in the sky, and he briefly considered setting up camp, but the cold dragged him onward. Keeping him awake with a biting chill and forcing his muscles into action. He craved the burning feeling in his arms. Something to ground him. Something he could always fall into.

Music swirled into his ears as he approached a run-down gas station. Yellowed lighting shone through it's foremost wall, which was made entirely of glass. It's door was shut tight, but an open sign glowed bright pink against the parking lot.

A smirk found it's way onto his face. Perfect.

He stuffed his mask into his pocket and strode into the empty parking lot.

The bell rung cheerfully as he entered. Heat pressed against his frosty face, warming the numbness from his cheeks and sending slight nipping stings through his skin.

The cashier –a brunette woman that looked to be around eighteen or nineteen– shot him a tired glance over her magazine. She shrugged and went back to reading.

He scanned the store. A couple of t-shirts, hoodies, and various other clothing items were stacked and folded on the far wall. Bags of chips and candy bars sat right next to the register. Two freezers toward the back of the store were packed with sodas and water bottles. A camera blinked over by the far corner of the ceiling. 

All in all, it seemed like a normal gas station.

As he walked by the counter, he stuffed a fistful of chocolate bars into his pocket, muffling the crinkling sounds with his sleeve. He perused the rest of the store in a similar way, stuffing what he could in his jacket, and casually skipping over everything else.

Though, a dark blue hoodie caught his eye. He couldn't wander around in full snow gear forever. Already, he was heading toward a much warmer climate –albeit, still quite chilly. 

He snatched it off the shelf, eyes flickering toward's the clerk's reflection in the window. Still busy with her magazine.

After disappearing into the bathroom, he threw off his jacket and on a t-shirt and some jeans –swiped from the very same shelf as the hoodie– to cover the Institute's jumpsuit. His eyes turned to the snow boots, and, after a few debating seconds, he tugged them off and chucked them into the growing pile of clothes in the corner.

Peter paused, staring at himself in the mirror for a moment. His hair was matted and dirty, his face scraped by tree branches. Even his feet were coated in grime. The only clean thing on him was the crisp, new clothes he was wearing.

That wouldn't fit.

He smudged some dirt off his cheek and onto the pristine white cloth of his t-shirt. Some more mud found it's way onto his jeans (in which he poked a hole or two in just for good measure). Another glance in the mirror.

Perfect.

He threw the hoodie over it, filling the inside with whatever he could smuggle out inconspicuously, and strode out of the bathroom with his head lowered in nervousness. 

One foot after another, he headed toward the door.

A tired voice laced with a sarcastic snap cut through the air before he had the chance to leave. "Y'now, ya haven't paid for that." 

Peter gave a nervous chuckle, and, forcing as much regret into his tone as he could muster, "S-Sorry, I-" He paused, gulping, "I'll put it back."

She hummed knowingly, glancing over him as he padded across the room.

"Why're you barefoot?" She raised an eyebrow.

"I, uh-" He cleared his throat, mentally running through a list of potential answers. "The- The bottoms broke off my last pair."

She squinted. Pete could practically hear the gears turning in her head. He continued forward, seemingly ignorant to the concerned frown she cast outside, where a biting wind was beginning to stir.

Just as he began to unzip the hoodie, he heard her softly swallow. "Keep it."

Bingo.

He paused, furrowing his brow in exaggerated confusion. "What?"

Her face hardened, as if she just came to a conclusion. "It's on the house," She tugged a few bills out of her pocket and set them on the counter with a stiff finality.

He bit his lip, staring into her determined gaze. "Are you sure?" He mumbled. "I mean, I-"

"Save your breath." She gestured to the door, a soft smile forming on her face. "Just leave before I change my mind."

Peter paused, smiled, and spoke without feigned emotion for the first time since he had entered the station. "Thank you." 

_Kr-Krsh! Fzzzzzzzzz..._

He closed his eyes, relishing the fizzing sound gently popping out of the can. Tiny droplets landed on his hand.

Passing it off to his right, he wiped his palm on his pants. Peter always hated sticky stuff, which was a bit ironic considering he _was_ sticky, but he had given up on reasoning his way through it years ago.

Besides, this was supposed to be a fun day.

The fresh air. The variety of food –hotdogs being one of his favorites. The plants hanging on windowsills and sprouting from the cracks in the sidewalk. He just got this strange rush from the break in the constant drivel back at the Institute that he couldn't quite put into words.

He took a sip of the soda.

The carbonation burned his tongue, almost too strong for comfort, but he couldn't help himself. He came in for another sip, slowly growing used to the tingly sensation. 

Sugary sweet. He'd need the fuel to keep his metabolism going, especially once things finally kicked off.

As if on cue, a large, surly looking man strode around the corner of the building, cigarette and lighter in hand. A few stray ashes from the end of his deathstick (something Peter had taken to calling cigarettes and cigars, partially because they killed people, and partially because the smell always bothered him and he hated it) and onto his blue uniform.

Go time.

He chugged the last of the soda, ignoring the burn in the back of his throat, and chucked the can into the trash.

Rounding the corner, his eyes darted to the side of the building, which was dotted with windows. He scanned them, hoping to find a conveniently open one (not that he minded breaking some glass, but he would prefer to keep his entrance quieter than his exit). 

Lucky for him, there was one open just a level below where he needed to be. A floorplan flashed through his head. It'd only be a few feet of open hallway, and then he'd hit the stairwell.

So, he did just that, scaling the wall with ease, and crawling into the office of –he assumed– a secretary.

Unfortunately for said secretary, he was out cold on the floor before he could scream.

For safety's sake, he webbed a gag over the man's mouth. It would dissolve in half an hour or so, but until then, he'd probably have a pretty bad taste in his mouth. In Peter's opinion, it was still better than dying, so he didn't feel too bad about it.

A minute or two passed until it was quiet enough in the hall for him to sprint to the stairwell. It was empty, as they always were (in any building with elevators present, the stairs were a ghost town).

He scaled the wall, tugging the grate off of a vent. The tube was just barely large enough for him to fit through.

Peter didn't hesitate, the adrenaline tugging him ever onward.

He dropped out a few minutes later, landing softly in his signature all-fours pose. 

He whirled around the instant his feet contacted the floor, kicking the knob off the metal door behind him, and denting it ever so slightly. Already, guards were rushing to the door, having seen his grand entrance on the cameras dotting the room.

Then he turned his gaze, finally staring straight into the eyes of the winter soldier.

Stubbly beard, ragged brown hair, metal arm. He looked almost exactly like the pictures, save for his expression.

In every image he saw, the man wore a robotic stare, and the hint of a scowl. Here the man looked... well, confused. And maybe a bit pissed off.

Without a word, Peter tapped the recorder in his pocket, and a deep Russian voice droned through the air.

_"желаниe"_

The soldier's eyes widened.

_"pжавый"_

He could hear his heart thunking faster.

_"_ _семнадцать"_

He thrashed wildly against his bounds, but to no avail.

_"рассвет"_

It was pitiful, really. The way he screamed out to nothing.

_"Печь"_

His weakness on display for the entire world to hear.

_"Девять"_

And weakness got you killed. Or worse.

_"Доброкачественные"_

The soldier was lucky.

_"Возвращение домой"_

He didn't remember the time before he was forced into strength.

_"Один"_

Peter did.

_"грузовой вагон."_

And that made him weak.

So far, their escape had gone off without a hitch.

The two assassins had already climbed up two floors, leaving only one more to go before they reached the roof. No one had given them too much trouble, mostly just being a little above Pete's average foe.

That is, until a shockwave rang through the air, screaming in his eardrums with he force of a jet engine.

He flinched, trying, and failing, to hold back a yelp of pain.

A quiet gasp swirled through the air, just barely audible over the ringing in his ears. He bared his teeth, spinning in the direction of the noise.

He expected a guard with a fancy gun. Or maybe a special agent. Perhaps even Captain America, if he was really unlucky.

What he didn't expect was Tony-Fucking-Stark.

Shit.

He could already feel his heart skipping a beat. Blood roaring in his ears. Throat threatening to close.

Why was he here? He thought he was never gonna see him again. The sheer chances of them encountering eachother were miniscule!

The billionaire looked almost as surprised as Peter felt, his expression a strange mix of confusion, concern, and fear.

"Peter?"

His blood ran cold. 

"Actually, it's Jo-anne," He quipped on instinct as he sent two strings of web forward, the first covering Stark's gauntlet and thwipping onto his arm. A simple twist sent him off his feet, slamming him against a nearby table.

A prickle ran up his back. It took a split second to figure out exactly where the tingle was coming from, giving him just barely enough time to dodge to the side as a figure flew past him.

His eyes landed on....

"Black Widow..." 

Of course. Two Avengers in one mission. Just his luck.

He coughed, shaking away his awed whisper. "Fancy seeing you here," He joked weakly, hopping backward to avoid a kick to the face. "Big fan of your work, by the way." He grabbed her leg, giving it a sharp tug.

She followed the movement with ease, twisting her arms into a handstand and wrenching her foot free, hitting his chin as she flipped back to her feet.

Before he could punch back, a boom sounded from behind him, eliciting another flinch.

Widow took advantage of his momentary distraction, sweeping a leg under him and sending him crashing to the floor. From his awkward angle, he had an upside-down view of Stark, who had just blasted through the webbing on his gauntlet. A few feet in front of him, the winter soldier tangled with an unfamiliar woman who fought with the grace of a dancer.

_Boom!_

His hands flew to his ears, and a strangled "Gck!" tore itself out of his throat. The shockwaves were louder than anything he had heard before. 

Another boom rattled through him, sending him sliding across the floor. Sound weaponized to the point that it could send him flying. It was strong. Too strong.

His ears rang, and he swore he heard a muttered "Sorry kid," from Stark himself, but he forced his arms under himself. Peter scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly as he stood, but still managing to stay stable.

Black Widow surged forward, only giving him enough time to throw his arms in front of his face before her fists connected.

He set a foot behind himself, bracing against the punch.

They fell into a flurry of fists and kicks. Synchronized in a dangerous balance. One that could fall to either side at any moment. Focus was the only thing keeping him-

_Boom!_

He stumbled backward, gritting his teeth as the sound burst in his head. Grimacing, he brought his hand to his ear, where something warm was flowing. Before he knew it, his back was against a wall. Perfect.

_Boom!_

He launched upward, sticking a foot or so above her head.

He was panting. Not from exhaustion –the adrenaline rush would keep him going for days if needed– but from the sheer pain stabbing through his skull.

A shiver snaked up his spine, so, gritting his teeth, he scrambled up a foot more, just barely dodging the miniature lightning bolts that arced out of a gadget glowing electric blue on her wrist.

Finally deciding that perhaps this was a fight he couldn't win, Peter thwipped out another string of webbing, waiting until he heard the quiet thunk as it hit the roof before he swung.

_BOOM!_

It rocketed through him –rattling his skull like a hurricane had just blown into his head– but his course stayed true. 

He sailed over the billionaire's head, gaining a few essential seconds as his opponent whirled around.

_Thwip!_

The shot covered his gauntlet as he prepared to launch another soundblast. The webbing expanded, but held strong (though, Peter wasn't sure how much more it could take). 

His hands darted forward, grabbing the gauntlet-ed hand and throwing it forward as he spun, sending the man flying to the ground. A sharp crack rang through the air.

Stark brought in a hissing breath through his teeth, but still managed to raise his hand toward the assassin. The webbing flowed a muted blue, the only warning aside from the way the hairs on Peter's neck rose. 

He flung himself to the side, landing on all fours. A beam of blue shot past his head. The buzz rumbled through his ear, missing by centimeters. 

No more playing around, then.

Another shiver went up his spine, almost inseparable from the low hum of fear his senses had been drumming into him for the entire mission.

He ducked, and a small disk shot over his head.

Quicker than it could could pass out of view, he shot out a web, ignoring the way it burned at his wrist. Swinging it in a short arc, he released the web moments before it met it's mark.

Stark convulsed and fell to the floor, his breathing evening out before his head hit the tile.

A half-baked plan shot through Peter's mind, and, before he had the time to talk himself out of it, he snatched the man's arm. Opening his mouth wide, he brought it to his face while yelling backing toward the exit.

He whistled sharply, catching the attention of his temporary "partner", who was locked in combat with the Widow.

The soldier grabbed her arm, chucking her across the room as if she weighed no more than a feather. He retreated silently behind Peter.

Widow stood shakily, about to rush the two, when her eyes fell on Stark.

"Y'now, I heard your little tasers are called widow bites." Peter grinned, showing off two gleaming canines. "My bites are a tad more... deadly." He hovered over Stark's arm, mouth open wide. "Let us go or let your friend here go. Your choice."

The fire spitting in her eyes made goosebumps ride up his arms, but she didn't take another step.

Peter backed away through the doorway, more or less trusting the soldier to protect his back. They found themselves in yet another glass-roofed room.

He dropped the still unconscious Stark as the door swung shut. "Break the window," He ordered. Glass rained down, and moments later, they'd made it to the roof, the final step of his escape plan.

Mere yards away was a helicopter. 

And a single yard away was Captain America.

_'Parker luck strikes again.'_ He thought to himself, shooting out a web before the man had time to react. One end to the man's arm, and the other clasped firmly in Peter's hands. 

Throwing him to the side, he anchored the other end of the web to the rooftop and booked it to the helicopter, the soldier right at his heels.

They both jumped in, flipping switches and dials to start the takeoff as quickly as they could manage.

It rose ever so slightly, but far too slowly for Peter's liking. Before the could even clear the rooftop, a shuddering thunk drew through the vehicle.

Looking out the side, he found Captain America, having freed himself, was singlehandedly holding the helicopter in place.

Fuck. 

He jerked the joystick to the side, straining against the man's grip. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the soldier grappling with Rogers. They fought without finesse, only relying on the sheer force behind each strike.

But the captain was at a disadvantage here. Peter wasn't sure why, but he held back. They both should've been equally matched, but Rogers didn't hit to injure, only to incapacitate. 

Unfortunately, he was pretty good at knockout shots.

One second they were exchanging blows, the next, the soldier was slumped over, out cold. 

In that same moment, the helicopter wrenched free of the rooftop. A surge of victorious adrenaline pumped through him. That is, until he caught sight of Rogers, still hanging off of the landing gear.

In a probably ill advised split second decision, Peter shoved the joystick down, aiming straight for the nearby rooftops.

They flew straight over the first, clearing it only by a few feet. The second they came within inches of. And the third finally sent the Captain off, just barely scraping the gear with an earsplitting squeal.

Even as they sailed further into the sky, Peter could see the Captain behind them, clambering onto the roof from his precarious grip on ledge of the wall. Staring forlornly after them.

He released a breath, feeling the energy drain out of him.

The break out was over, but the worst was yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just saw this halfway through writing this chapter so lemme just say; 50 KUDOS?! You guys (and gals and nonbinary pals) are all so kind! I am a humble writing goblin, thank you for blessing my work. *bows and yeets out a window*
> 
> (Seriously thank you though)
> 
> Also, sorry that this chapter is a bit janky. I tried to iron it out, but this is as good as I got it. Hope you enjoyed, anyway. Kudos and comment if you want, don't if you don't, and have a nice day!


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